‘He brought me back an exhibition catalogue. Nothing fancy, just a few sheets of paper folded in the middle and stapled. But it had the titles of my paintings, the dates of the exhibition, some biographical notes about me. I was so proud of it.’ Mary blinks away tears. ‘Aidan went back and forth to London—or I thought he did—to check on how things were going. Well; it was going well, that was what he said whenever he came back. He seemed genuinely pleased for me. My pictures were selling—I couldn’t believe it. One day Aidan came back and told me they were all sold. He even . . .’ Her face screws up in agony. ‘He had a sales list, so that I could see who’d bought what. There were nine names on it. I don’t need to tell you what they were.’
I have no idea what she’s talking about. How could I know who had bought her paintings?
‘The first was Abberton,’ she says softly. ‘Don’t say the others, please. I can’t bear to hear them.’
A shiver runs the length of my back.
‘Aidan took me out for dinner that night, to celebrate the sell-out. That’s when I betrayed Martha.’
‘You spent the night with Aidan.’ I’d prefer to say it myself rather than have her tell me.
‘No.’ Her face sets in a mask of displeasure. ‘Aidan and I have never had sex. Martha slept with him, and I knew what a failure that had been.’
‘How did you betray Martha?’ I ask.
‘I told Aidan that if I had to choose between a happy, fulfilling personal life and my work, I’d choose the work. My painting. He smiled at me when I said it, and we both knew what it meant: that we were the ones, that Martha had never been like us. We’d discussed it, you see—Aidan told me Martha had admitted to having lied to the journalist who interviewed them.’ Mary squints at me. ‘Did I tell you about that?’
I nod.
‘She pretended she’d choose her writing, when really she’d have given it up like a shot if she could have kept Aidan. He despised her for lying. He despised her shallow attitude to her work—he didn’t want to be with someone like that. Martha didn’t deserve Aidan, she never did.’ Mary presses her hand against her mouth.
‘Tell me about the exhibition,’ I say. Eighteen paintings. Eighteen empty frames on Aidan’s walls. But I don’t know there are eighteen of them. I never counted.
‘The day after our celebratory dinner, once I came back down to earth, I started to ask questions: when would I get the money? Was the gallery empty now, if my paintings had all sold? Aidan teased me for my ignorance, explained that the show stays up until the end of the final day, as planned. Buyers collect after take-down and that’s when they pay. He’d made me inflate the prices in order to be left with a decent whack once the gallery had taken its commission. He joked about taking commission himself, since he was the one who set it up. I never stopped to wonder why he’d want to help me to that extent. He was spending more time on me and my exhibition than he was on his own paintings. If I’d thought about it, I’d probably have decided it was down to my talent, which had overwhelmed him.’
I hear the self-hatred that underlies the casual sarcasm.
‘I knew how good I was. I could see it. Aidan was an artist—artists should care about art more than anything. I believed he did. Until I found myself in London one day visiting a friend, and decided to disobey his orders.’
‘You went to the gallery?’
‘I couldn’t resist.’ Mary turns on me. ‘Would you have been able to? I thought it couldn’t do any harm, as long as I didn’t go in. I was going to look in the window, nothing more, just to catch a glimpse of my work in that strange, exciting setting—a real gallery. I wanted to see the red sold stickers on the labels . . .’ Her words peter out. A solid, paralysing silence descends on the room, one I’m afraid to break.
‘Mary? What did you see?’
She doesn’t answer. I ask again.
‘He should never have told me the name of the gallery. Or he should have made one up—how hard is it to make up a name? He’s got no imagination. That’s why I’m a better artist than he ever was. Artists need imagination. Connaughton.’
‘What’s that?’
‘The gallery. Connaughton Contemporary. My pictures weren’t there. The man there had never heard of me. I rang Aidan, and when I told him what had happened, what I’d seen—not seen, rather—he told me to come back to the cottage. His voice sounded so . . . unwelcoming, so flat, nothing like the person I thought I knew. It was as if he’d been possessed by some remote, horrible stranger, and the old Aidan had been wiped out. That’s when I remembered that the old Aidan had driven Martha to suicide. I’d allowed myself to ignore what I knew about him in my desperation to latch on to someone after Martha’s death. We’d experienced the horror of it together—for a while, that was all that mattered.’
I shut my eyes and think about London, when Aidan’s behaviour towards me changed. Whenever a friend succeeds, something in me dies. He’d written that in a card to Martha Wyers, after she sent him a copy of her published novel. Did he set Mary up for a fall because he was jealous of her talent as a painter? I wish he was telling me the story instead of Mary, to help me understand why he did what he did.
‘I came back here,’ she says quietly. ‘The door was open. I called his name—nothing. So I started looking. I found him in here. On the floor next to him was a pile—like that one, except smaller. I had no idea what it was. It just looked like a mess, although I could see little familiar things, colours and shapes I recognised, but I didn’t grasp the truth until Aidan told me straight out.’
She starts to walk slowly around the mound of detritus. ‘He was so proud of his plan to destroy me—he described it as “genius”. There was no exhibition, never had been. No one in London had seen my work. Aidan took my paintings—I let him take them—and he destroyed them one by one. Thanks to my trip to London and my lack of self-control, I found out early. He’d been planning this . . .’ She kicks the heap and lets out a low groan that startles me, as if the pain inside her has a voice of its own, deeper and more raw than hers. ‘Planning my surprise for the end of the exhibition, when I’d have been expecting a cheque from the gallery.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, understanding at last why she doesn’t sell her work, why she keeps it all in her home and entrusts it to no one.
‘I stood where you’re standing now, sobbing, begging him to tell me why. He said he had another surprise for me. It was an exhibition sales list—not the one he’d given me already, the one he’d faked, but a real one, from his exhibition at TiqTaq. The names, Abberton and co? They were Aidan’s buyers. Not mine, never mine. All the people I’d imagined loved my work—all along it was Aidan’s work they loved.’
‘The paintings,’ I say, more to myself than to Mary. ‘Outlines of people with no faces—because they weren’t real.’ That’s how Aidan knew, how he could predict the series, what Mary would call the eight paintings that followed Abberton.
‘The ones who bought Aidan’s paintings were real enough, I suppose,’ she says, off-hand.
‘Why? Why would he do something like that?’
‘He never told me. That was almost the worst thing. He bragged about what he’d done to me, but he wouldn’t explain. As always, he avoided talking about his reasons or his feelings, apart from to say he’d been pleased when we went out for dinner and I said what I did about choosing my work over a happy personal life. It sounds so pompous—I’d barely been painting for a year, at that point—but already it was my life’s work. It was all I wanted to do. It still is. When I told Aidan that over dinner, he knew he’d picked the perfect way to damage me beyond repair.’
Seeing my confusion, perhaps mistaking it for disbelief, Mary says, ‘Oh, I can give you reasons if you want them. They were clear enough when he threatened me. Before he walked out of this room and out of my life, he put his hands round my throat and squeezed so tight I thought I was going to die. He said, “You’re never going to paint another picture. Understand? And you’re nev
er going to tell anyone what happened when Martha died. If I find out you’ve done either, it’ll be you swinging from the end of a rope next time.” ’ Mary shudders. ‘No one was going to ruin his career, he said. He was going to be a star, and Martha and I couldn’t do anything to stop that happening.’
‘But . . . Martha committed suicide,’ I say numbly.
‘He could have saved her,’ says Mary. ‘By the time he tried, after he’d phoned the ambulance, it was too late. He couldn’t risk that becoming public knowledge. Think of it. What a thing to be known for—an act of cowardice that caused the death of a promising young writer who had her whole life ahead of her.’
‘But you hadn’t said anything so far, and if he hadn’t destroyed your pictures, you’d have had no reason to . . .’
‘He hated me anyway, long before Martha died. He’d never forgiven me for the letters I sent him when he was at Trinity, messing Martha around. I could see through him, all the way through. I knew he was scared and damaged, too gutless to deal with his problems, preferring to make other people suffer instead. I can prove how much he hated me. Look.’ Mary runs from the room. I follow her up the stairs to her bedroom. It’s covered in discarded clothes, with no visible floor-space, and stinks of cigarettes. Every drawer in the scratched mahogany chest gapes open. Mary pulls something out of the bottom one. ‘This is the sales list from Aidan’s exhibition.’
It’s handwritten but clearly legible.
‘Look at the title of the last painting on the list.’
‘The Murder of Mary Trelease,’ I read. ‘He called one of his pictures that?’
‘That was the first threat. He took great pleasure in telling me the painting didn’t even have me in it, or a murder. He said he liked titles that kept people guessing. Now does it make a bit more sense to you—him confessing to the police that he killed me? It’s part of a game he started years ago.’
Her question barely registers. My eyes have fixed on a name I wasn’t expecting to see: Saul Hansard. Saul bought one of Aidan’s paintings. Abberton, Blandford, Darville, Elstow—they’re all there too, under the heading ‘Buyers’. Cecily Wyers also bought one of Aidan’s paintings, as did someone called Kerry Gatti (Mr).
‘You understand why Aidan wants to kill me,’ says Mary in a lifeless voice. ‘I didn’t stop painting. He did. He can’t allow that to go unpunished.’ She starts to cry. ‘I took such care to make sure he never found out. I didn’t exhibit my work, didn’t sell it—I did everything I could to keep my painting a secret, but he still found out. Thanks to you.’ She puts her hand on my arm. ‘I don’t mean that the way it sounds. I know it’s not your fault.’ Her fingernails dig into my skin. ‘For years, after what he did to me, I painted nothing but him. Over and over again, from memory: how his face looked when he told me what he’d done. Each time I finished a picture of him, I destroyed it immediately and added it to the pile. My exhibition, ’ she says sadly. ‘The only one I’ll ever have.’
My heart beats as if someone’s bouncing it against the wall of my chest. I stare at the names and addresses of the people who bought Aidan’s pictures, picture I’ve never seen. If I had them in front of me, would it make anything clearer? Would they take me closer to the person Aidan really is? I try to tell myself they wouldn’t, but it’s useless. The need to see them swells inside me—a physical craving, beyond rationality. It’s obvious where I ought to start: with my friend, Saul Hansard.
I look up, catch Mary’s eye. I don’t even have to ask. She knows. She understands. ‘I’ll call you a cab,’ she says.
22
5/3/08
‘If we work on the assumption that Aidan Seed strangled someone—an unknown woman—in the front bedroom at 15 Megson Crescent, that means he can’t also have killed Crowther,’ said Simon. He’d been to the bar and returned with a pint for himself and one for Charlie, though she’d told him twice that she wanted a vodka and orange. ‘The methods are too different.’
‘The situations might have been different,’ she pointed out. ‘One might have been spur of the moment, one planned.’
He was silent for a few seconds. Eventually, he said, ‘I can’t say you’re wrong, because I’ve got nothing solid to back it up. But . . . I don’t know, I’ve never killed anyone, but I doubt killing’s like cooking, where you might do it one way one time and another way another time: today you might microwave your baked beans, tomorrow you might heat them on the hob. I reckon for a lot of killers, there’s only one way they’d ever kill, either because the method’s part of a ritual that’s important to them, or because only that one way feels possible. Someone who’d lose his temper and strangle a woman in anger wouldn’t kill coldly and dispassionately with a gun—take away the heat of the moment and he couldn’t kill at all. A shooter wants to guarantee absolute control. He wouldn’t be able to face something as risky as a strangling, in case his victim overpowered him, or—’
‘Maybe,’ Charlie cut him off. ‘Maybe all this is true of most killers, but there could be one—let’s call him Aidan Seed— who has killed in more than one way. And who says you have to lose your temper to strangle someone? That could be planned, too.’
‘Milward said Seed wasn’t their suspect,’ said Simon. ‘At least admit it’s possible: Trelease killed Crowther either because Seed was spending time with her, or because he’d given her Abberton , or a bit of both. We know Trelease likes to keep her paintings to herself, doesn’t like the idea of other people getting their hands on them. We also know she attacked Ruth Bussey, Seed’s girlfriend—maybe she’s even killed her by now.’
Charlie groaned. ‘You’re going to say Mary Trelease is obsessed with Seed and she’s killing the other women in his life. That’s wild speculation even for you.’
‘Do you think we can assume Adam Sands in Martha Wyers’ novel is Seed?’ Simon asked.
‘Definitely. I phoned Trinity College, Cambridge. Martha Wyers applied for the job there that Aidan got. They met at the interview, like Adam Sands and the fictional version of Martha.’
‘Then I’m right,’ said Simon, as though this were a plain fact. ‘Trelease murdered first Wyers and then Crowther because she saw them as rivals for Seed’s affection. She’ll kill Ruth Bussey for the same reason, if she hasn’t already.’
‘How does Abberton fit in?’ Charlie asked.
‘I don’t know.’
‘And where’s Seed now? You’re saying Trelease made him drive her car somewhere at gunpoint . . .’
‘She’s killed him.’
‘How convenient,’ said Charlie drily. ‘Everyone I mention, you tell me Mary Trelease has killed them. Evidence? None, which is why you’re saying it to me and not to Milward or Kombothekra.’
‘Milward’s in no mood to listen to me. I fucked up.’ He glared at Charlie, daring her to criticise him. ‘She was coming round to trusting me, and I threatened her. She as good as threw me out on the street. As for Kombothekra . . .’ Simon sighed heavily. ‘He rang me before, wanting to give me an update. I called him a coward.’
‘A coward?’ Charlie was confused.
‘This situation—us being out of the loop, him breaking rank and drip-feeding us information—the way I saw it, it was win-win for him. He keeps us up to speed and buys our loyalty—no way we’re going to serve him up on a plate to Proust once he’s stuck his neck out for us, right? He can tell us as much as he wants without risking anything. The more he leaks, the more grateful we are, the more we return the favour by protecting him. To us, it looks like he’s going out on a limb because he’s on our side. To the Snowman, he’s the good boy who never puts a foot wrong.’ Simon shrugs. ‘Easy way for a yes-man like Kombothekra to look like he stands for something. That’s what I thought until Gibbs phoned.’
‘And now?’
‘I was wrong,’ said Simon. ‘Seems Kombothekra’s support for us is more public than I gave him credit for. Sellers and Gibbs know he’s been in regular contact with us, and he’s been doggedly fighting
my corner with Proust, too. None of which I knew when I laid into him.’
‘Sam doesn’t hold grudges,’ said Charlie. ‘Tell him you’re sorry and tell him your overblown theory. For what it’s worth, I think Seed’s a hundred times more likely to have killed Crowther than Mary Trelease is. He’s got a real motive—Crowther spent three days torturing his girlfriend.’
Simon was shaking his head. ‘Seed’s not the sort to take revenge. Nor to harm anyone deliberately—which is how I know that, whoever he strangled at 15 Megson Crescent, it wasn’t planned.’
‘What? Where are you getting all this from?’
‘Have you heard of George Fox?’ Simon asked.
‘No.’
‘Born 1624, died 1691. He was the founding father of Quakerism, pretty much invented the whole thing single-handedly. Gemma Crowther rated him.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I went to an internet café when Milward chucked me out. You don’t have to charm information out of computers, or thank them afterwards.’
Or make love to them, thought Charlie. Maybe Simon would prefer to marry a Toshiba Equium M70. Charlie only knew the name of that particular model because she owed her sister one.
‘Crowther’s written about George Fox on at least four Quaker websites, quoting his words of spiritual wisdom like she thinks the sun shines out of his arse. On one of the sites, someone’s posted a comment with the heading “Cobblers”, taking her to task, someone with a not-so-high opinion of Fox. Guess who?’
‘Aidan . . . oh. Len Smith?’
The Dead Lie Down: A Novel Page 39